


Into Dark

by Axis2ClusterB



Category: Boondock Saints (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-10
Updated: 2012-10-10
Packaged: 2017-11-16 00:34:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/533519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Axis2ClusterB/pseuds/Axis2ClusterB
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pillow talk, of a sort. Connor feels the need to discuss, Murphy thinks it's ridiculous.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Into Dark

“I’m sorry,” Connor says quietly into the dark, and he’s more than a little surprised when Murphy murmurs back, “For what?”

“Thought you were asleep,” Connor says as he rolls quietly to his side, reaches out for the warmth of his brother and finds Murphy’s shoulder.

“Then why were you talking to me?” Murphy asks, and Connor can hear the laughter in the low voice, because of course Murphy knows.

“Because I needed to fucking say it,” Connor presses on. 

“What the fuck for?” Murphy asks again, and now he’s rolling, hissing in pain, and that has Connor immediately wincing in sympathy.

“For that,” he says, “for burning your fucking arm with a fucking iron,” and he can see the quick flash of Murphy’s grin in the moonlight through the window. 

“Then I’m sorry for your leg,” Murphy says. “Connor, what the fuck are we really talking about here?”

His leg *does* hurt, aches and burns and throbs even through the whiskey and pills they downed earlier, before limping their way into Rocco’s small, filthy bedroom, leaving Rocco passed out in the living room on the threadbare couch. It’s okay, though, because Murphy was pressed to him when Rocco pressed the iron to his skin, Murphy was there for Connor to reach back for, sweaty hair for him to wrap his hand in, to pull on. 

Everything’s starting to feel disjointed now, pulled apart at the seams with the booze and pills that are finally starting to work. Time’s stretching like taffy as Murphy sighs and pulls him closer, kisses him hard on the mouth and he can smell his brother, fear-sweat and love and pain and that other, that scent that’s under Murphy needing a shower, the scent that’s just his brother and has put him to sleep since their mother sang Irish lullabies over their crib.

“Y’think too damn much,” is the only thing that he can make out clearly in the jumble of words that’s coming from Murphy’s mouth to his ear, a soothing mess of sound that doesn’t make sense, isn’t meant to.

“Jus’ need…” he tries again, but it’s too much to keep his eyes open, too much to try to ferret out what he needs and communicate it to Murphy, but of course he doesn’t have to, because Murphy’s already giving it to him anyway, giving it to him with rough hands trying to be gentle on his back and a rough voice trying to be soft against his ear. 

“I’m what you need,” are the words that follow him down into unconsciousness, and they curl his lips into a smile as everything fades away.

-End


End file.
